Blood Brothers
by Nyx6
Summary: Sam is by no means the ideal brother - or at least that's what Dean thinks. Others disagree, and they would be only too happy to have him in their fold, even if it means wiping out every other memory he has...You can't choose your family. Can you?
1. Prologue

Prologue.

The fields around the little wooden house sat quiet in the dark. Tall miles of corn flanking the little weather-boarded structure like an armed guard. Dark shadows rattling in the chill wind like a hiss or a whisper, all leaning towards where a single lamp lit up the dusty ground beneath the porch, and to a constant, dull thumping that radiated up from the building's foundations.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

It was happening again. Somewhere within the walls evil was happening and it involved a man, a woman, and a shovel.

"You got the pendent?" the woman asked from the basement steps, wisps of grey hair floating before her eyes as she lent forward, her arms holding close the thin battered bathrobe that covered her figure. Before her the man, the younger by several decades, glanced up nervously through heavy ginger curls thick with grease and nodded.

"Yes ma," he replied, raising an arm to wipe the sweat from a thin moustache with the sleeve of his shirt, "I took it off afore I buried him."

The woman gave a single nod, eyes falling onto the fresh mound of earth lying before them,

"Good boy," she responded, distantly, "We're going to need it to find us another one. A better one," she added with a nod of determination before letting out a sigh, "Such a shame about your last brother. He wasn't right for us at all. A wicked child," she spat.

"A wicked child," the man bleated back at her quietly.

"Just like the one before him" she sighed, lifting her gaze to take in the fainter bulges that dotted the earthy ground with a frown of ferocity, "But don't you worry none Isaac," she continued, her conviction growing as her son came to stand obediently before her, letting her run bony fingers through his hair, "We'll find you a worthy brother this time and we'll keep him with us forever. He'll be a good boy, just you wait and see."

Isaac nodded, turning to rest his head against his mother's chest as she gripped him to her fiercely, repeating the final sentence as if to convince herself,

"Just you wait and see."

The response was chillingly compliant.

"Yes mother."

"Just you wait and see…"


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One.

Their room was a mess. More than that, it looked like it had been trashed. Completely trashed, although not in the usual college-way of a stack of empty beer bottles and a couple of drunken buddies slumbering on the couch, that was far too normal. No, their room had been trashed Winchester style, and that was something college-life never even came close to.

Around the room trails of cemetery-mud circled the carpet in big boot marks, sweeping and criss-crossing one another until the carpet was so earthy-looking that Sam wasn't even sure what colour it had been when they'd arrived. Curled shavings of wood lay scattered on the floor amongst the candy wrappers, from where Dean had been busy whittling stakes over everything but the trashcan. Food boxes soggy with grease sat on every available surface that wasn't already covered with books, scraps of paper, printouts and newspaper cuttings and in the midst of it all, earphones in, a goofy smile on his face and God knows what on the computer screen, sat Dean. Oblivious to it all.

"Dude!"

"What?"

"What?" Sam repeated incredulously from the doorway, throwing his arms wide to indicate the chaos, "This place is freakin' mess and we've got to be out of here in…" cocking an arm towards his head he consulted his watch, an episode that brought yet another wide-armed appeal for action, "…less than an hour!"

Not bothering to look up from the screen, Dean simply offered up an infuriatingly casual shrug,

"So? They got a maid."

"Ye-ah," Sam replied in exaggerated tones as if talking to a five-year old. Sometimes he couldn't be sure he wasn't, "But there's blood all over the carpet Dean," he hissed, picking his way through the debris, one eye on the nicely healing cut tracing his brother's right forearm, "She's going to think we murdered someone in here."

"Well all right then," Dean replied with heavy sarcasm, pulling the phones from his ears and letting the tinny strains of Led Zeppelin drop onto the bed, "Why don't you grab your feather duster, I'll get the mop and we'll 'spoonful of sugar' this place clean."

Sam blinked.

"You've seen Mary Poppins?"

"Mary who?"

A groan followed by an awkward silence.

"Besides," he continued, shifting Sam's laptop to one side and sitting upright, "It's not like this place was going for five stars when we arrived. I know for damn sure that stain in the bathroom was already there."

Sam took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm,

"That's not the point."

"What is?"

"You really need reminding?! Dean, the feds are on our tails. They want you for murder! Do we really need to bring any more attention to ourselves?" he was yelling now, he couldn't help it, one of them had to see the bigger picture and if it wasn't going to be Dean, then it was just going to have to be him.

"Listen Sam," came the even reply, "Seeing as how I'm probably headed for the chair if I am ever caught, I don't think a bill for replacing the cheapest carpet in history is really my biggest concern right now."

"All the more reason for us not to piss off anyone else, motel corporations included."

As Sam continued to stare him down, that _you know I'm right_ expression stamped so unwaveringly across his face, Dean let out a long-suffering sigh and stood-up with a roll of his eyes,

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, you load up our stuff, I'll go talk to the maid."

"Wait, wait, talk to her?" Sam repeated in disbelief, "That's it? Dean this place is a mess."

Pausing on the threshold of the door, Dean smirked, offering another of his patented _leave it to me_ shrugs before suddenly thinking of something else,

"Oh, and grab me a burger from the diner will ya? I'm starving,"

"Again?! You're already customer of the month and we've only been here four days!"

"So? Come on Sam, with all the sweet talking I'm about to do, I'm going to need to build my strength back up."

Sweet talking? That was never good.

"Dean - ,"

"Don't worry, I've got it under control."

_Yeah_, Sam thought wryly as the door banged shut behind his brother, _that's what worries me. _

Their stuff was fairly easily packed, weaponry in one bag, the few clothes and belongings they had in two more. Dean had left the computer on, although he'd had the good grace to at least shut down whatever questionable web page he'd been browsing – not that it stopped Sam from cleaning his history, just in case. Their lives were weird enough without him accidentally stumbling across his brother's sexual preferences one day while researching apparitions or anything that sounded remotely anatomical. Creepy.

With the laptop slipped securely into his bag and the car loaded up and ready to go, Sam set about fulfilling the second part of his deal and satisfying Dean's seemingly endless demand for food. At times it almost seemed easier to simply buy and live out of a burger van; mobile, a source of income, and a handy supply of grease for Dean to up his calorie count on whenever he chose. Although it probably didn't crank out Led Zeppelin quite like the Impala, nor for that matter could he see Dean in an apron.

The diner located next to the motel was every bit as run-down as it's counter-part, although luckily with fewer stains. As Sam entered the young man serving behind the counter looked up with a smile, pleased to see a familiar face.

"Hey!" he greeted warmly, full of teenage enthusiasm. Sam bit back the urge to snort; here was a young man who'd clearly found his calling, "Your brother want the usual?"

"Err…yeah," he nodded slowly, browsing the menu before realising what a pointless exercise that was, "Make it two."

"Sure thing."

As the kid went about getting their order, the door behind Sam swung open and an older woman scuttled in out of the cold evening wind, grey hair blowing wildly under a wide-brimmed hat. She looked up at Sam and smiled, pulling a battered cardigan closer about her shoulders.

"Winter's really coming in now, huh?" she offered with a shiver. Sam smiled back,

"Seems like."

His accent drew a frown of curiosity,

"You not from round these parts?"

"No, just passing through," he replied easily, the lie by now so practised that it came naturally, "I'm on a road trip."

"Oh," the woman responded with a wide smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "How lovely."

As a strange silence settled between them, the woman stepped forward to pull out her purse, accidentally scattering coins across the floor. Sam dropped to help her instantly, scooping the loose change up in one hand and passing it over to her before she even had time to comprehend what had happened.

"Well bless me what a kind young man you are," she cooed, eyeing him with intrigue, "You're a credit to your family."

Sam looked up at her from where he was still crouched on the ground, aware that there was not a lot he could say in response. Luckily for him he didn't have to, for at that moment the young guy leant across the counter waving a bag.

"Here you go,"

Sam stood quickly,

"Thanks."

"Hey, no problem. We're all going to be sorry to see you go,"

Sam smiled, trying to quell the grin that threatened to spill across his face, _I bet_, _although not as sorry you are that you don't work on commission. _If that had been the case, surely Dean could have bought them all a condo by now. Instead he simply nodded,

"Err, yeah. Well, see you round."

As he turned to go, hoping that the server wouldn't physically break down in tears and realising that the chef too had come forward to wave him off, the old woman offered him a nod, smiling thinly in his direction.

"You take care of yourself now. Mind how you go."

Sam felt a shudder wash across his back. Was not even buying a burger normal for a Winchester? Were creepy old ladies par for the course now or was he just imaging things? Probably the latter, he considered as he crossed the windy car park towards the Impala, wondering when it was that he'd started to become so paranoid.

"Hey!" he heard a shout behind him as he pushed the keys into the lock, "Boy!"

He turned towards the voice at once, noticing the old lady scuttling towards him, hair blowing wildly. It wasn't until he caught sight of her face however that he realised his paranoia was warranted. In place of the intense but friendly smile she'd been wearing before, was a jaw clenched in determination, a purposeful stride and cold wide eyes staring at a point beyond his shoulder. He turned too late,

"Now Isaac!" he heard her shout, spinning into the twisted face of a younger man and feeling something stab into his neck, sharp and painful, something…he stumbled, still trying to work out what it was, dropping the bag of food to the ground as his legs suddenly refused to take his weight.

Slipping onto the cold hard ground, Sam felt his head begin to swim, his vision reaching up through layers of black cloud to the two faces bent above him, panting with exhilaration, staring down with unsmiling grins. His hand moved up to feel his neck gently, his hand feeling like lead.

He tried to rub at it uselessly, his strength evaporated to the point that the old woman was able to bat his hand away with a simple tap, chuckling as she did.

"Careful now boy," she hissed, leaning in so close to his ear that her breath tickled at his skin, flinching as her fingers began to run through his hair. Desperately he battled to stay awake but with every passing second he began to realise he was fading.

"Welcome to the family son," he heard her say as he gradually slipped into complete oblivion, "Don't worry, you'll fit right in."

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Practically finished this one now, so hopefully I can get a chapter or two up per night or something along those lines…if it's any good, which it may not be. It's my first official foray into this fic-dom and the first time I've flexed my writing muscles in…wow, ages so for all I know it might suck!

Here's to hoping it doesn't though!


	3. Chapter Two

Thanks to my lovely reviewers! It's been over a year now without posting on this place and I'd forgotten just how much I missed them! Now, on with the story and another two for you tonight because I'm feeling all generous!

Chapter Two.

To Dean's surprise there had been more than one member of the cleaning staff, a mother-daughter team from Mexico as it turned out and a fact that surprised him only due to the state of the place. He'd thought his and Sam's room was bad, but as he'd paced the corridors looking for signs of life, he'd started to realise that they had in fact lucked out.

The mother was a no-go area, the sort of woman that made an angry bull elephant look docile and with enough years behind her to know when a man young enough to be her son was flirting with her in exchange for some good will. She was having none of it, and had Dean been able to speak the same language, he was pretty sure he'd have left the conversation a lot worse off.

The daughter however was different, slim, attractive and not yet old enough to have inherited her mother's caution when it came to the opposite sex. In fact, as he'd spoken to her Dean had slowly come to the realisation that the girl probably wasn't even old enough to have a full-time job, but since she wasn't a real prospect for conquest – even he had some sexual morals – he'd ramped up his sweet talk until she was practically agreeing to replace their carpet herself. Nice kid.

He had returned to their room to find that Sam had done as asked and packed up all their things, probably with the type of anal precision that meant Dean had no need to double check. All the same he found himself collecting up some of the wood chips and candy wrappers before tossing a handful of dollars onto the table, suddenly feeling guilty about piling so much cleaning on such a young girl's shoulders.

The Impala had been standing out in the car park, rain-spotted bodywork gleaming bright enough under the neon signs to make Dean smile. In a life so full of blood, mud and dust, it still amazed him that he could own something so beautiful and more than that, keep it that way – most of the time. Stepping off the kerb towards it, he had barely had time to register the pick-up that came barrelling round the corner towards him, practically tipping onto two wheels in its haste.

"Jeez - ,"

He'd watched it career past not more than an inch away, screeching off onto the road without even pausing to take in what little on-coming traffic there was. Dean had shaken his head, brushing down his jacket as if to smooth his ruffled feathers. People were freaks in these parts. He'd been glad they were leaving.

Sam however, was not inside the Impala, not tapping his fingers across the dash nor browsing his computer as Dean had expected. Pulling the collar of his coat up about his neck as the rain began to pound down heavily, Dean had turned to head for the diner, assuming his brother had taken refuge inside. As he had rounded the car however, he'd noticed the bag of food spilt across the floor and the keys dangling from the door. It was a sight that had made his stomach lurch and realisation dawn.

"Shit!"

That was not just a speeding truck driven by some local drunk. That was a getaway vehicle, and it was getting away with…

Turning on his heel, Dean had run for the diner, hoping against hope that the dropped food was just the result of Sam's clumsiness – the keys being left in the door he could kill him for later – and that his younger brother was safely installed at the counter, ordering another round.

He wasn't. As Dean had burst through the doors with such a bang that it made the few customers seated at the tables jump, he knew instantly that Sam was not there. No confused-looking face, no hesitant query. Sam was in that damn truck. He knew it.

"Hey man? You want another?" the young server had asked, his face lighting up at the sight of their best customer. Dean hadn't responded, he hadn't had time. Darting back across the car park, he'd instead flung himself into the seat of the Impala, starting up the engine and feeling the car begin to shudder underneath him as it roared into life. Zeppelin burst onto the stereo only to be quickly flipped off. He needed to concentrate. Spinning the car onto the highway with the same recklessness as the truck, Dean had headed off fast, knowing that the truck had time on its side. If it had already turned off it would make tracking it near impossible…unless…

With one hand gripped white-knuckle to the wheel, Dean had felt about frantically for the cell buried in the pocket of his jeans.

"Come on damn it!" he'd yelled to himself in frustration, finally pulling it loose and tapping in a familiar number, "Ash?"

"Dean, hey man, how you - ,"

There had been no time for pleasantries.

"I need you to trace Sam's cell."

"Huh?"

"Can you do it or not?"

"Well, yeah. But why don't you just phone the main - ,"

"I haven't got time, I need it fast!" Silence had greeted him on the other end, occasionally punctuated by the tap of what Dean had assumed was a keyboard, "Ash?"

"Keep going straight."

"Huh?"

"You're following them all right."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Ash had snorted across the connection, clearly amused by Dean's underestimation of his brilliance.

"Sam's isn't the only phone with GPS."

"Am I closing in on them?"

"Well…they're going pretty fast,"

He'd floored it instantly.

"How about now?"

"Better."

"Stay on the line Ash. They so much as change lanes I want to know about it."

As it had turned out, they hadn't changed lanes. Not even once, keeping straight although driving with a speed that Dean had assumed virtually impossible in a battered pick-up, particularly since despite thrashing the Impala to within an inch of her life, he'd never once caught sight of them.

The trace on Sam's cell had led them halfway through the night, to the outskirts of a pleasant but typically backwater town and straight to a ditch by the side of the road.

Dean had climbed out of the Impala with more than a little trepidation, glancing around at the wide-open expanses of field that shouldered the road on either side. It was quiet, remote, untravelled, the perfect place to dump a…he couldn't bring himself to think it. Swallowing, he'd taken one step closer to the channel and cautiously looked in. No body. Just the phone.

"Damn!"

"You got him?"

"No."

"No?"

"They ditched the cell."

"Shit…" Ash had paused, aware that from that moment on, he was pretty much useless. He was all about the technology. Legwork, getting answers and looking for needles in a haystack? That was the Winchester's department, "I'm sorry Dean."

"Yeah."

"Call me if you need anything," Ash had offered in consolation, "Or Ellen. You know we're all rooting for you."

"Thanks Ash," Dean had replied, not really meaning it. Sincerity was hard for him to come by at the best of times, in that moment it was virtually impossible. He'd hung up instantly.

Further down the ditch, besides the phone, Sam's wallet and jacket had been dumped too, clearly from a moving vehicle although mercifully each item was free from the bloodstains that Dean had dreaded yet half-expected to see. That had to be a good sign – if there was such a thing.

Sliding into the front seat of the Impala, clutching his brother's things almost like force alone might bring him back, Dean had dropped back against the headrest, contemplating his next move. He had to think logically – treat it like any other case. That was the rule. The problem was that if there was one thing this whole mess was not then it was _any other case_. Still, he needed to be logical and since the things had been dumped on the outskirts of town, then that seemed like a reasonable place to start, which meant he needed a base and an alias.

Slamming shut the door, Dean had fired the car into life once more, determination lacing his face.

"Hang on in there Sam."

First he was going to find his brother and get him back in one piece. Then he was going to make sure that whoever took him never messed with the Winchesters again.

He was going to make damn sure.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three.

The second he opened his eyes he wished he hadn't.

The room was brighter than he'd thought it would be, the intensity of the sunlight assaulting his bleary eyes and coursing into his skull, mixing with the whistling in his ears, the tingling of his skin and the stale taste in his mouth until he felt that his every sense was under attack. It took him a little while to realise that the whistling sound was more like a humming, and coming from within the building itself. What was that?

Chancing it a second time he again slid open an eyelid, more cautiously this time, allowing his system to adapt to the beams flowing in through the thin and battered curtains. He paused. Curtains? Where the hell was he? Who the hell –

Forcing himself more clearly awake, he used the growing strength in his arms to push himself upright, glancing around the room with freshening eyes. It was a barren affair of wooden walls and flooring, scattered with the occasional piece of furniture and two tattered posters pinned to the sloped ceiling; one of Jesus on the cross staring down at him with a curiously intent expression, and the other a cartoon of what looked like a farming family, standing before a little white house, silhouetted by a dazzling sunrise and adorned with the words, 'Family Comes First.'

Sitting forward a little more, he started as something cold brushed against his chest, reaching down to look at a small silver pendent hanging around his neck. The humming intensified. It was a cross, the horizontal arm inscribed 'Jacob Whittaker.' He frowned, who was Jacob, and, for that matter, who was he? Was…he faltered slightly, unsure of what to make of the blank spaces in his mind…was that him? Was he Jacob? The sound of approaching footsteps abruptly ended any queries he had, as instead he turned towards the door, heart thumping loudly as it creaked open on its hinges, followed by a gasp.

"Oh thank the Good Lord, Jacob, you're awake!"

He blinked. So…he was Jacob? Why could he not remember? Looking up slowly, he took in the woman before him, thin, crowned by a head of flyaway grey hair and staring at him with a gentleness that didn't quite match her hard blue eyes. In front of her she clutched a tea tray, which she quickly put down on the chest at the end of the bed as she hurried to his side.

"I - ," faltering slightly, he flinched as she leant in close, running a hand through his hair, smiling down at him indulgently and cutting him off before he'd even got started.

"Ssssh now, mama's here. Don't you go wearing yourself out, you had a nasty fall remember?"

He frowned, confused all over again, strangely soothed by the motion of her fingers caressing his hair.

"I – I did?"

"Oh my yes. My heart clean turned over when I saw you!"

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Nearly two days now. Thank goodness your brother and the Good Lord were looking out for you."

"Brother?"

As if on cue, another figure stepped into the doorway, tall, lanky and half-hidden under thick ginger curls dark with grease.

"Isaac," the woman turned to him, holding out a hand. Childlike the man stepped towards it, catching it in his and letting her pull him towards the bed, a smile forming under a thin moustache. His mother smiled warmly, "My two men. So handsome. Such good boys."

"Such good boys," repeated Isaac with a grin of infatuation. Cupping his face with her hands, Belle took another long look at him, her eyes shining with emotion,

"Don't you worry none Jacob," she told him gently, brushing the hair from his face, "We won't let anything happen to you ever again."

He believed her. Why wouldn't he?

"Yes mother."

"Good boy," she soothed, "Sleep more now, and you wake up, it will all be clear again."

He did as told, letting her push him back into the covers as his eyes began to slowly close once more. Exhaustion taking over.

"Sleep my boy," she whispered over him, white teeth shining down, "Sleep."

The silence that followed lasted as long as it took Belle to be sure that he was out again.

"We got him back again Isaac," she whispered, never taking her eyes from the sleeping face in front of her, "My Jacob. He's back."

"Think this one's going to last?" came the uncertain voice behind her, earning himself a sudden and ferocious slap that sent him reeling.

"Hold your tongue!" she snapped, before softening and turning to rub at the pendent with her thumb, "This one's a good boy. 'Sides, he's wearing the chain now, he won't remember a thing."

"But them others - ,"

"The others weren't right!" Belle interrupted hotly, "This time we got it right, you'll see. You get rid of his stuff?"

"Yes ma," Isaac nodded, still feeling the sting in his cheek, "I dumped it outside town. In a ditch. No one's going to go looking for it there."

"Good boy," she said, standing, "In that case I think we need to go into town. We've got three mouths to feed now, we're going to need to spoil him a little, show him how good we are. Start up the truck."

Isaac blinked.

"We leaving him here?"

Turning to her son with a smile so feral it made even him shudder, Belle lent close, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger and leaning in to whisper into his ear.

"He's not going anywhere."


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four.

"F.B.I?" the man repeated carefully, peering first at the badge and then at the young man standing across from him, staring over the counter-top at he and his wife.

Dean nodded, forcing a smile.

"That's right, Agent Di'Anno,"

The man stared back, more than a little dubious as he took in the jeans, thick boots and well-worn jacket.

"I thought you guys all wore suits," he offered hesitantly, drawing a reproachful look from his wife. Dean took back the badge easily, tucking it back into his pocket and offering up the wide, bright-eyed smile that had worked with many a-woman before.

"Only on TV," he grinned, letting his confidence lead the way. Honestly, nine times out of ten it was the suit that won people over, the badge on its own just didn't carry the same weight. Not that he usually used one without the other in the first place – not unless the circumstances dictated anyway. His last suit had been practically shredded on a hunt and although Sam's was probably neatly pressed and packed in the back of the Impala somewhere, putting it on would probably have made him more unconvincing than ever. Like a child trying dress-up in their father's clothes. Until he found Sam, getting a new suit was just going to have to wait. As was making up more fake . Mentally he cursed the constant updates made to official agency badges, grateful that at least the feds had held off on that for a little while.

The woman stepped forward, abruptly breaking his thoughts as she moved to place a placating hand on her husband's arm, at least for her part, won over by the badge.

"How can we help you?"

Truthfully? Dean wasn't sure. He'd been pounding the streets of the little town for nearly two days now, hopping from quaint little shop to quaint little shop, each time being met with looks of horror that something so awful could happen in their jolly little community, and then shaking heads that nobody knew anything that could help. He doubted the middle-aged pair in front of him would be any different. Which meant facing the fact that perhaps Sam just wasn't in that town at all – although that threw the question of where the hell he was wide open. Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Dean cleared his throat.

"We're conducting some questioning in the area as part of on-going investigations."

The man blinked, sceptical but by no-means hostile,

"Investigations into what?"

The woman shook her head in amazement,

"Here? But we're such a quiet little spot."

Dean resisted the urge to snort; like he'd never heard that before, usually just before or after having been mauled by some ghost or ghoul stalking said 'quiet spot's' local vantage point and making dream catcher's out of the locals. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek and carried on,

"It's just routine at this point. Seeing if we can gather together any information that might help,"

The husband nodded slowly,

"Well what are you looking for exactly?"

"A truck," Dean replied, getting straight to the point, "Pick-up. Seen any of those around here?"

In answer to his question the shop-owner glanced over to the big store windows out onto the street, all of them turning to watch as at least three sailed past on the road outside. Dean grinned without a hint of amusement,

"Well this one would be red, kinda old, rusty," _A heap of junk._

"No…I'm sorry - ,"

But Dean wasn't done,

"Okay, how about him?" fishing into the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small photograph of Sam, taken just before he went to college but enough of a likeness of him. In fact he'd barely changed, except he'd possibly grown taller – somehow. The photo had come from his dad's wallet when the hospital had given him their father's belongings, tucked into the back amongst the notes, a folded snapshot of both brothers sitting in the garden of some house they'd rented – briefly. Dean kept his fingers tight over the image of his own face, wondering as he did, why it was he'd shown the image to half the residents of some backwater town but, for some reason, never to Sam himself. He took a deep breath, "Twenty-three, tall – well, huge actually – probably complaining about how messy the place is?"

It was a joke utterly lost on the couple before him, but saying it made Dean feel better. Almost like it brought Sam closer. The woman frowned, bending closer to the image,

"Who is he?"

"Name's Sam Winchester, went missing from near here two days ago. He…We think he was taken from outside a motel."

"Oh, how awful," she tutted, looking up to meet Dean's gaze, "Does he have family?"

"A brother."

"How's he holding up?"

"Not so good."

"Well," pulling off his glasses and tucking them back into the pocket of his shirt, the man shook his head, rubbing his hand across a beardless chin, "I'm sorry, I really am. I wish we could help, but I just can't think of anything."

Dean's shoulders drooped visibly. He should've known.

"Yeah."

"I just can't believe it's happened again," his wife chipped in sombrely, wrapping her arms close about herself as if to give some comfort. Dean eyes narrowed,

"Again?"

"To another young man I mean…" she paused suddenly, looking up in confusion, "…but, then, you must know about the others, being FBI…otherwise why - ,"

"Oh, right," Dean interjected smoothly, laughing off his own mistake as his heart began to pound in excitement. There were more? More was good, more meant patterns and patterns meant clues – all of which were usually Sam's department but still… "Of course. The other cases," they were back to eyeing him curiously once more but Dean didn't care, suddenly he had somewhere else to be, "Hey, I don't suppose you good folks could point me in the direction of the library could you?"

They could, and they did, directing him a short drive away to a tall white-stone building opposite the main market area, full to over-flowing with stalls of local produce and bartering shoppers. Leaving the Impala in a nice space – one side against a wall, the other flanked by a nice looking Beamer, no dents – he trotted up the steps and pushed his way inside.

He was greeted with a delighted look from the woman behind the desk, liking to attribute it to his animal magnetism but knowing that it really stemmed from her surprise at seeing anyone under the age of fifty and not dressed in tweed striding in so determinedly. He flashed her a smile, watching her blush and smirking to himself in response. Perhaps it was animal magnetism after all.

He installed himself quickly at the one of the computers, settling down properly for the first time in months to what Sam did so well – and what was more, could do for hours too. Searching articles was a necessary evil for Dean, who had what he considered a healthy preference for pumping the paranormal full of lead rather than reading up on their likes and dislikes; Sam on the other hand was the bookish one. Ask him for one way to kill a spook and he'd provide ten, as well as the accompanying mythological narrative stretching back hundreds of decades and a quick synopsis of the various attempts past and present to vanquish whatever weird and wonderful creation they were up against. Staring at a computer screen for hours on end – without question – sucked.

Until you found exactly what you were looking for…

There were four of them in all – discounting Sam – stretching back a surprisingly short span of eighteen months and starting with a boy called Jacob Whittaker, the first to catch Dean's eye in that he was a local boy, reported missing by a neighbour whose house he had been helping to rebuild. Seemingly the guy had just vanished one day, leaving the small-town police department baffled and clueless. Next, a little further out, was Andy Cooper, who disappeared from a motel room that had been locked from the inside. Police suspected the open window as being his means of exit but whether he'd gone alone or not was apparently beyond their expertise, despite the fact he'd left everything he'd owned – including his shoes.

Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes police incompetence was beyond belief.

The third victim was a Thomas Daniels, taken from the forecourt of a gas station as the attendant turned his back. Car door wide open, engine running, Thomas gone. Again the official line left little to be desired, no leads, no clues, and basically no hope in hell of finding him. A comforting thought. Finally came Greg Parker, whose car was found broken-down and abandoned at the side of the road, his bag – again containing all his stuff – was alongside it.

For Dean, looking with hunters' eyes, the connection between the men that the local law had missed altogether was instant and alarming. All the men were in their early twenties, all were alone and all with the exception of Jacob were unfamiliar with the area, a road trip here perhaps, or a missed flight there. He and Sam were on a road trip, a perpetual one. Then there was their demeanour, the men described in the same glowing terms by friends and family, 'friendly,' 'polite,' etc, etc. If those didn't all describe the way Sam was around people – people they didn't know anyway – then he didn't know what did.

Then of course there were the pictures, smiling photographs of young men Dean didn't know, candid shots from weddings, parties, graduation, shots that were never supposed to be on the front pages of newspapers under big 'missing' titles. Shots that were supposed to be laughed over in years to come, pointing out bad dress sense or the same floppy, dark-brown hair they all sported, because that was the other link – their looks. They were all boyish in that they could pass for younger than they were, they all sported shaggy mops in various states of disarray and they were all dark in features, hair and eyes.

They were just like Sam, or perhaps, more to the point, Sam was just like them.

Grabbing a local map from a dispenser at the desk – obviously the townsfolk were used to lost road-trippers calling in – Dean took out a thick-tipped marker and started drawing dots. One for the town he was stuck in, Jacob's point of disappearance, one for Andy Cooper's, one for Thomas Daniels, one for Greg Parker and one for Sam's, colouring the dots in wide circles before linking them all together and sitting back.

The pattern stared up at him like a firework, starting with the town he was sitting in and radiating straight up along the main road in. The equivalent to a few hours driving away the pen mark suddenly branched out like a flowering tree, forming a cluster around the other disappearances. Whatever was going on, it clearly all radiated out of the 'quiet little spot' the locals had all been so horrified to find the centre of the 'F.B.I's' focus. Which in some ways was a blessing. At least he was in the right place.

Folding up the map and grabbing up his printouts and articles, Dean shoved everything into his bag and swung the contents over his shoulder. Time to relocate back to base and try and work out what had taken five young guys in such quick succession and why. Various thoughts whirled in his head as he went, though he managed to break through the haze just long enough to throw the librarian one last roguish grin before heading out into the dull light of the day. What the hell had Sam got himself into this time? A cult maybe? Was that the kind of realm they'd stumbled into? He shook his head wearily, dropping his items onto the hood of the Impala and sighing. Never before had he actually missed good old-fashioned, pissed off spirits.

The library car park too seemed to have been caught up in the bustle of the market-place, and he watched absently as people crossed the tarmac carrying bags of groceries knowing for a fact that not one of them had even considered setting foot inside the tall white, and all but deserted building beyond.

"Get the truck started boy," came a voice to his side, making him glance up, thoughts briefly interrupted as a woman and her son passed by, about as backwater a couple of characters as he'd ever seen in his life and heading straight towards a battered red pick-up –

He paused suddenly, eyes widening in shock. A battered red pick-up? No way.

Instantly Dean dropped to a near-crouch over the hood of the car, pretending to be bent over the map but his eyes straining up to take in every inch of the pair in front of him.

These two? Seriously?

The woman was perhaps late fifties or early sixties, the grey hair on her head so dry and fine that it looked almost wild, standing out sharply against the thin, haggard frame, with eyes that shone steel-cold as she twisted back towards the market stalls as if to check for pursuers. There were none, except her son, who gave creepy a whole new meaning.

For a start the guy walked like an extra from Planet of the Apes, shoulders hunched upwards, arms swinging limply by his lanky sides. Like his mother, narrow eyes darted around in caution, although his lacked the harsh intelligence which was instead replaced by uncertainty. A tongue flickered periodically across his lips, serpentine in its motions, feeling along a thin moustache. Then there was the top of his head to worry about. Greasy hair was never much of a statement at the best of times, but teamed with curls and a healthy glow of ginger? Dean shook his head in disgust, the kid hadn't just been hit with the ugly stick, he'd been positively violated by it.

And suddenly the thought of these two anywhere near Sam sent shivers down his spine.

As the pair clambered into the rusty old truck, pulling the doors behind them with a solid creak on either side, Dean folded smoothly into the front seat of the Impala, his eyes never leaving the mirror. If they so much as sneezed he wanted to be aware of it. They had Sam and there was no way in Hell he was losing them this time. Which was why, as the battered engine spluttered into life and the heap of rust lurched from its parking space, Dean swung out coolly in their wake, letting them lead him through town and trying not to twist off the steering wheel as his fists clenched tightly around it, pouring out the anger he was itching to use on the occupants ahead.

They drove for perhaps another fifteen minutes, out of the town and deeper into the wide expanse of fields and farms Dean had passed on the other side – and where he'd found Sam's phone – pulling the Impala up short as the truck turned off down a track lined with trees, heading for a small house surrounded by a barn and out-buildings. He watched the dust-track through narrow eyes, tracing every line of the property and making a mental map, just as he had done a thousand times before. The only problem was this was not every other time, this, maybe more than ever before, really mattered.

It wasn't until the truck disappeared into the barn and out of sight completely however that Dean let himself sit back against his seat.

Time for a plan, he decided as he pulled out his shotgun and checked the clip. A good plan. Really good.

Unfortunately he didn't manage to get that far, for the next second there was a thud at the window and he turned to find himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Loaded, cocked and well and truly aimed at his head.

"Son of a – ."

He was screwed.

* * *

Just one tonight, but I hope it's long enough – don't want to over-post people into boredom!

Many thanks again to my lovely reviewers, and all those people on alerts. Please keep all coming!


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five.

"Put down the gun! Put it down!"

The speaker was a man straight out of the Dukes of Hazzard, complete with grubby baseball cap and lumberjack shirt – not forgetting the rifle, which waved around dangerously in front of Dean's nose threatening to go off at any second, a risk heightened by the unmistakable tremble of old-age in his trigger finger.

Dean held up his hands, gun hanging in one of them. It was not a good time to get killed.

"Open it up," came the next command, accompanied by a gesture towards the driver window with the barrel of the gun. Dean did as he was told, slowly, gun-hand still up out of harm's way. He could not believe he was being held-up by freakin' Uncle Jesse and despite the danger, his first words through the rolled-down window expressed that irritation.

"Go easy will you Grandpa? I'm F.B.I."

That drew a frown and the merest flicker of hesitation before a bark of disbelief,

"You're a fed?" he asked, bushy grey brows knitting together, "Where's your badge?"

Dean fished it out carefully, holding his jacket wide open so as not to suddenly spook the worryingly unsteady trigger-finger and sliding the leather-backed I.D out of his inside pocket into plain view. Shifting the rifle to the crook of his other elbow, the man stepped forward and snatched it quickly, eyes scanning first the details and then the face before him. It seemed to take forever, which was a hell of a lot longer than Dean had.

"Wanna stop waving that thing around in my face now?"

His snapped sentence drew a final look of doubt,

"Where's your suit?"

He was getting fed up with that question. Fast.

"The cleaners," Dean shot back with a narrow-eyed smile, "Satisfied?"

Evidently the man was, for the next second the badge had been thrust back through the window and the rifle propped butt-down on the ground for use as a post as the old-timer propped an elbow against it and leant forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper,

"You come for that woman and her son?" he asked suddenly, eyes twinkling in excitement. Dean frowned, momentarily caught off guard.

"What makes you say that?"

The man shook his head resolutely, swinging it left to right as he answered,

"Not right them two. Not right at all."

"Not right how?" asked Dean carefully, wondering if the guy really could offer him something of use or if he was just the local lunatic. Probably the latter if their typical brand of luck was on his side. The man blew out a long breath and turned towards the little house, pointing, still keeping his voice low.

"See them drapes up there at the top…" he began, indicating a small window in the apex of the building indeed covered by material. Dean nodded, waiting for the rest of the sentence with baited breath as the man swung wide eyes back to him, whetting his lips for the revelation to come, it was going to be big.

"…they ain't never open."

In the silence that followed Dean stared at him long and hard, trying to process what he had heard with the fact that could barely believe it. He cleared his throat and sat forward, incredulity playing across his face,

"That's it?"

Sensing the information had not gone down as well as planned however, the living Uncle Jesse homage hurried to find something else,

"Well, that and them going out all hours of the night in that damn heap of rust of theirs, carrying things into the house – human-size things – and then the…digging…"

Suddenly it felt like maybe they were getting somewhere,

"Digging?"

"Digging," came the affirmative as again the man bent in closer, scared or at the very least cautious of who might hear, "In the basement, in the pitch black of the night. I've heard them."

Dean frowned, reluctant the repeat the word a second time yet knowing he had to,

"Digging what?"

Eyes widened.

"Holes for something…or someone."

Dean let out a long sigh, mentally running through the options in his head. If he were a real F.B.I agent he'd have laughed the guy off the roadside by now, but he wasn't, and the worst part of the whole thing was that the crazy old fool was probably right in his assumptions. Great. Suddenly another question came to him,

"What did you say your name was?"

He hadn't, which was sort of the point. Not that it mattered much as the man wiped a muddy hand down his trousers and extended it through the window.

"Jed, Jed Hamilton. I'm the neighbour, well, nearest one they got anyway."

Dean blinked. Jed Hamilton? It was almost worth looking round for Bo and Luke Duke, which would have been entirely worth while were Daisy tagging along too in those tight little – .

"Any reason you've been watching your neighbours so intently Mr. Hamilton?" he asked in his best _answer me, I'm a federal agent_ tone. Jed's jaw tightened, his eyes suddenly softening,

"Well someone has to. It's only right. I mean I took care of that boy like he was practically my own…"

A flicker of revulsion passed across Dean's face,

"The ginger kid?"

"What?" abruptly Jed snapped back into reality, his expression mirroring Dean's distaste, "No! Not that idiot! That's Isaac. I'm talking about Jake. Bright boy he was, sharp as a tack. Still miss him you know, not the same round here since he left us."

As Jed continued to wax lyrical beside him, Dean's eyes were caught by the sight of the woman and her son emerging out from the barn and into the house, casting round warily, clutching their groceries and entirely capturing his full focus.

"Yeah, well," he muttered off-hand to Jed, sitting forward to push the handgun behind his jacket and into the back of his jeans, "They all gotta fly the nest sometime."

Jed frowned, stepping back as the Impala door swung open,

"No. Boy that's not – ,"

"Excuse me,"

He stepped back again as Dean climbed out, aware that he was no longer being listened to, sensing that ever fibre of Dean's body was poised ready for action. Something was about to go down. Hastily he bent to collect up his rifle.

"Need me to cover your back?" he asked eagerly, drawing a half-interested headshake,

"No thanks Jed, not this time."

The older man nodded, trying not to let his boyish disappointment show,

"Well," he replied uncertainly, "All right, if you say so. But, err, listen," stretching out a hand, he caught Dean by the sleeve of his jacket, turning him gently until the younger man was looking directly at him, if only for a second, "Give'em hell huh?"

Dean's expression rose as he found himself momentarily surprised, but as the sentiments sunk in his eyes narrowed and he grinned over a wolfish smile before bending low and heading for the tree line,

"Oh, don't worry," he replied darkly, "I intend to."

The half-run, half-crouch towards the barn was fairly easily accomplished, helped by both trees and an untidy collection of broken farm-equipment scattered liberally around the property. Every few metres Dean was able to duck behind something and survey his next step, and with every movement he drew closer to the little house that seemed to be causing everyone so many problems. Well, if not everyone then at least him and the neighbour. And certainly Sam.

He paused momentarily as a noise hit his ears, low and humming, a buzz that was so consistent he almost had to question whether he was hearing it at all. He tapped his ear once in irritation, and then put it to the back of his mind.

The yard was empty, the woman and her son safely tucked away inside somewhere, probably unpacking whatever type of groceries it was that crazed hillbilly kidnappers tended to buy. Not that it mattered much to Dean as he skirted along the edge of the barn and swiftly let himself in through the big double doors, having decided to start his search for clues in the place that had held the first. The truck, which, if possible, looked even more battered and rusted up close than it had on the road. One big lump of scratches, dents, erosion and a final item stashed in the back that made Dean's stomach turn over. A syringe. Empty. Used.

He grit his teeth together in anger.

"Damn it!"

So that was how they'd got Sam. It made sense, after all, in the year or whatever it was that Sam had been back on the road with him he'd pretty quickly gotten back into the swing of self-defence. Certainly to the point where seemingly being abducted by an old lady and her ape man son had had Dean puzzled to the point of disbelief. Drugging him seemed both horrific and a relief. It also explained why his things had been dumped without a struggle, although of course there was no way to tell what they'd injected him with, why, or what affect it had had on him. More unknowns.

The barn told him little else, which meant only thing. It was time to hit the house, a thought that filled him with both anticipation and dread. The truth was, although he'd been hunting for years, and often alone, he'd gotten used to Sam watching his back, a shared little nod before an all-out assault, the knowledge that someone else was there if it all went wrong. After all that, doing it alone felt…strange. But then again, he wasn't the only one alone right now, and Sam was counting on him.

Slotting the clip of the gun back into place once more, relishing the heavy click it made, Dean smiled.

There was no way he was about to let him down.

He left the barn through the doors at the back, skirting the entire length of the building before crouching at its perimeter and staring hard towards the house. It seemed deserted although he knew it wasn't, sitting dark and quiet beyond a dusty patch of open yard, littered with old bicycles and water butts. His eyes slid up to the windows, watching for flickers of movement, shadows, life. There were none, nothing but that constant hum in the background.

Wrapping his fingers more firmly around the handle of the gun he took his chance, sprinting half-bent across the space and slamming backwards against the wooden beams of the raised porch, breathing as steadily as he could manage against the rising adrenaline and keeping one ear open for movement. Still nothing. It was starting to be something of a theme. Where in the hell was everyone?

He crept up onto the porch itself, still ducking low under the window-line before dropping to his haunches by the backdoor and pulling against the handle gently. It inched open unlocked, making the sort of metallic-creak he'd come to expect from the movies – the movies Sam usually spent a good deal of time ridiculing. Although, Dean had to admit, if ever the TV-movie suits needed a good set, then the little house had to be almost perfect, even the kitchen he slunk into from the doorway seemed to have been designed with creepy and unwelcoming in mind. Dimly lit, damp and dusty. Why was it exactly that the homicidally insane never kept up with their renovations? Dean was going to have to ask someone. Only not today, because as he ducked behind the solid wooden table in the centre of the room, the reason for his foray into the unknown – and bizarre – breezed casually into the room.

The sight made Dean's heart catch in his throat, a bubble of joy threatening to spill out at any moment. Sam was alive, he was unhurt and, more importantly, he was standing not three feet in front of him. Quickly Dean straightened up, standing in plain view although keeping his voice a frantic whisper. The last thing they needed was an all-out showdown before Dean knew what they were dealing with.

"Sam."

It did the trick. Instantly and clearly startled, Sam spun on his heel staring wide-eyed across the space between them. In his haste to give his brother at least a verbal once-over, Dean didn't instantly sense the danger playing in the other man's eyes.

"Sam," he began, his tone a rush of relief, "You ok? They hurt you?"

It wasn't until he stepped towards him however that Dean realised his mistake. Sam took a step back.

"Sammy?"

It still didn't quite click, and then crushingly it did as Sam stepped back once more, fear in his eyes and a cry for someone other than his brother loud on his lips.

"Ma!"

_Ma? _Dean held up his hands, confusion playing readily across his face as he tried to placate whatever fears his younger brother had.

"Hold on Sam I just – ,"

"Jacob?"

He was interrupted by another voice, sharp, shrill and worried as the woman stepped into the room beside them, eyes falling questioning upon Sam and then taking in Dean with a gasp of shock. It doubled as Dean drew his gun, confusion replaced squarely by anger as the reason for the whole mess and days of anxiety wandered into view – although Dean couldn't fail to notice the horror that lit up in Sam's eyes at the sight of the gun's aim. He tried to ignore it.

"What did you do to him?" he asked instead, voice a low growl with undertones of murderous, "What have you done to my brother?!"

At the fierce accusation, Sam visibly flinched and suddenly he seemed five again, cowering as their father had yelled at Dean over something trivial as he had done from time to time when the stresses of single parenthood and an unorthodox life on the road had combined to tip him over the edge. The sight instantly made the hardness in Dean's eyes melt clean away and although it was only a momentary flicker, the woman saw it and held a hand out to her side, cold stare never leaving the intruder.

"Come and stand by me son, it's all right, he won't hurt you."

Sam complied, hesitantly at first, but then quickly, as if looking for comfort, even taking the gnarled old hand with an eagerness that turned Dean's stomach and transformed his voice from one full of hatred to one brimming with emotion.

"No. No, Sammy she's not your mother. Our mom was Mary, okay? Mary Winchester," he choked the words out, willing his eyes not to well up in his mixture of grief and frustration. Now who was five? "And she was not some bitter old hag. You hear me Sam?"

He did, but not with the sort of awareness Dean had hoped to trigger, instead his rising tone was met with yet more fear and wide-eyed confusion.

"You remember her damn it!"

Quickly the anger returned and as Dean's face hardened once more, he stepped towards them both, cocking the gun and pointing it dead centre at the woman's heart.

"Whatever you did to him bitch. I'm putting it right."

Although he never actually had the chance because at the last moment, and for the second time that day, he was caught unawares, this time across the back of the head. Hard. And suddenly everything went black.

_Crap._

Leaving him with one final thought.

_What is that buzzing?_

* * *

Ok, so maybe Dean's not really paying much attention – but he's a wee bit upset right now. Anyway, there's another chapter for you. I hope it satisfied, and, as always thank you SO very, very much to all my 'alerters' and especially those reviewers who take, not only the time to give me feedback, but also leave such encouraging and detailed support. You're all fabulous!


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six.

He awoke to the unpleasant but by no means unfamiliar sensation of concussion. Swimming vision, waves of nausea and a headache that screamed at him louder than a banshee. He let out a groan, God damn it why did people always go for the head?

The next part of him to catch alight with pain as he moved were his upper arms, twisted round and secured tightly behind him, the corners of a chair digging painfully into his sides, his chest crushed with the duality of half being pinned back and yet being dragged forward by the weight of his sagging shoulders and head.

Another groan came out, this one almost like a grumpy protest and accompanied by a heavy drag of air as he forced himself slowly upright, his skull feeling like a lead weight as his eyes tried to catch up with the change in direction all the while pitching like he was standing on the deck of a sea-tossed ship. It did little to settle the nausea, although it seemed to amuse somebody else in the room.

"Finally woken up huh, pig?"

It was a sneer, feminine and by no means friendly. He didn't need to guess who it was.

"Yeah," he bit back, managing one of the ever-defiant grins he saved for when he was really in trouble, "But I'll be honest, I've had better hospitality at a morgue."

She stared back evenly, finally throwing the F.B.I badge down at his feet and letting the picture stare up at him,

"Best place for filthy pigs,"

Great, as if his day couldn't get any worse they now thought he was the law and if there was one thing country-folk hated more than intruders, then it was men from the big towns with badges. And just when he thought they were going to go easy on him…

"Filth," she spat from where she stood across the room from him, arms folded, "Coming into my home, threatening me, frightening my children – ,"

"Are you freakin' crazy?" Dean fired back hotly, determined to ignore his pain, "Sam's not your kid. Never was, never will be."

Teeth glinting in the half-light, Belle took a step towards him, coming in close and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He flinched underneath it, every fibre of his body screaming at the sensation. The woman put the freak in freaky, even more so as she began to run her bony fingers upwards until they snaked through his short hair, finally grabbing a handful and yanking his head back. Dean's breath came out in a gasp but he wasn't by any means broken,

"What, want to add me to your screwed up little family now too?" ducking his head sideways he managed to shrug himself free of her grip, looking up with murderous eyes, "Well sorry lady, but 'son' is already taken, and I ain't no kind of husband."

The response earned him a grin – although it was anything but comforting. Luckily however the shuffle of a pair of feet drew both their attentions and Dean looked up just in time to see Isaac plod hesitantly across the threshold,

"Great," he beamed sarcastically, "Gang's all here, huh?"

Isaac ignored him, peering up at his mother through reddened eyes, his voice low and halting,

"I – the other one's out feeding the chickens, just like you said Ma,"

Belle nodded,

"Good, he doesn't need to see this,"

Dean grinned without humour,

"Hell, why not get him to join in, Sam's not half bad with his fists."

Abruptly, something within Belle seemed to snap and she swiped the back of her hand sharp and hard across Dean's cheek, which drew a chuckle of adoring delight from Isaac. Her eyes blazed furiously as she pointed her warning at their captive,

"No. Not my boy. Jacob is a good child. A good child. Don't talk about him like that!" she seemed wild, her composure leaving her in a flash. Dean frowned,

"Jacob?"

Jed Hamilton had mentioned a Jake who had 'left them', which Dean had just taken to mean left the area, struck out on his own kind of thing, after all with a family as crazy as his who in the hell could have blamed him, but the way Belle was using Sam as a substitute, the likeness of the other missing men, it all pointed to one thing. The real Jake was dead and either through guilt or grief, his family were auditioning his role out to the next best guys they could find. Dean curled up his face in sudden ridicule,

"Oh come on, you gotta be kidding me right?" his outburst drew looks from both mother and son, "You're trying to replace your dead kid? That's why you took Sam and the others?" he laughed in disbelief, "I mean I thought we were dealing with demons here, vampires, spirits, but you? You're just a couple of backwoods frea – ,"

This time it was Isaac that caught him, abandoning the back of the hand for a full on fist to the face, glancing off the corner of Dean's mouth as he struck a blow along the jaw line, surprisingly hard for such a thin and pathetic looking guy.

"Don't talk to my ma like that," he panted as Dean's head sluggishly rose from the assault, "Just…don't."

"Isaac," Belle's voice when she spoke was harsh, her poise regained, "Pull them drapes, then go and move his car. Don't want that thing sitting out on the road all night."

Dean blinked as Belle produced his keys from somewhere, feeling himself shift in renewed anger,

"You so much as _imagine_ a scratch on her, I swear to God I'll go primeval on your ass,"

It was a sentence that delivered a certain amount of pleasure despite his predicament, because as Isaac pushed out through the swing door a definite spark of fear flashed in his eyes. The boy was weak inside and out, although Dean had to hand it to him he threw a decent right hook.

The silence left him alone with Belle once more and suddenly the joking on his part stopped.

"Why Sam?"

She looked at him carefully,

"Jacob – ,"

"Don't give me that," he interrupted tersely, "This _Jacob's_ name is Sam okay? Sam Winchester, the one before him was Greg Parker, the one before, Andy Cooper, then Thomas Daniels and Ja - ," as he hit the last name Dean's listing stopped abruptly, the words coming out in short syllables as the pieces of the puzzle gradually fell into place, "Jacob Whittaker."

His eyes looked up to search Belle's face and, judging by her suddenly ashen features, Dean realised he'd hit the mark. Jake, the missing Jake was _Jacob Whittaker_. The one victim who had been local to the area, the first one to disappear, Belle's son…

His expression sharpened in surprise and he sat forward as far as he could in case he misheard the answer to his next question, which came out about as amazed as he was,

"You killed your own son?" he asked, brows knitting together into a frown as Belle's gaze took on a faraway look, staring straight past him to an imaginary spot on the wall,

"He was such a good boy," she whispered, confirming – if she hadn't already – his total belief that the woman was insane, "Such a good boy."

"Why?"

"It was…" she paused momentarily to take a deep, shuddering breath, eyes never leaving the spot on the wall behind him, "…an accident."

Dean managed to hold onto his snort of derision, doubting strongly it was. Homes where people were kidnapped, tied to chairs and beaten up were rarely the sort of places where genuine accidents tended to happen. Particularly fatal ones.

"I – ," when Belle eventually spoke again she seemed frail, small, shocked even, "Jacob. He's…he – ,"

"Mother?"

They both turned towards the voice in surprise, Belle's eyes wide as if she was seeing an apparition. In many ways she was.

"Jacob?" she whispered, holding out a trembling hand. Sam stepped towards her quickly, letting the door swing shut behind him as he crossed the kitchen, taking the skeletal offering up in his own and watching her in fright,

"Mother what's wrong?"

Dean watched his sycophantic mamma's boy act in distaste, the muscles in his wrists straining against the ropes that pinned them together as the woman reached up to stroke his brother's hair.

"Don't touch him!" he barked angrily, drawing Sam's attention and briefly seeing a stab of something other than indoctrinated devotion – concern. Concern for him. Even if he was, at that point, still a total stranger.

"Is…" he started hesitantly, gesturing in Dean's direction, "Is he – ,"

"He's fine," Belle interjected sharply, a flash of her character coming through, "Just fine."

Sam didn't seem convinced,

"But…he – ,"

"I said he's fine Jacob," she snapped in warning, before softening again and bending forward to rest her head against his chest.

Except that anyone with eyes and half a brain cell could tell that Dean was not fine. Firstly, he was tied to a chair, which was by no means normal no matter who you were, secondly he had both hand and knuckle prints running along his cheek and jaw line, a split lip, a face colour way too pale not to be caused by concussion and, to cap it all off, an F.B.I identification badge lying open at his feet. Sam Winchester proper or not, Dean was not surprised that the sight caused alarm. He was far from keen on it himself. Still, despite the fact that to this 'Jacob' he was all but an outsider he couldn't stop from smiling across at him roguishly, keen to quell whatever fears he had,

"I'm okay Sammy. I mean, I've had worse right?"

The sentence drew a frown, one so unmistakably Sam-like that Dean could've sworn it was him. Well, it was him, just not _him_…he groaned softly, dropping his chin onto his chest. The whole damn thing was giving him one hell of a headache.

Sam watched him do it, tilting his head gently to one side as he tried to allay a strange feeling that clutched at him deep inside, de-ja-vu but not of a kind he'd ever had before. Something about the situation – other than a captive in their kitchen and his mother practically curled against him – felt wrong, like maybe there was something about it he was missing. Something he should know.

"Ma!" Again the moment was interrupted by the sound of the swing door and this time Isaac burst in, skittering across the floor at the sight of his mother and practically pushing Sam out of the way to get there, "I'm here ma, Isaac's here."

Sam stepped back out of the way, eyes glancing briefly over at Dean as in the background Isaac comforted his mother. The sight of her tear-streaked face seemed to outrage him and abruptly the ginger one thrashed out a fist, catching Dean clean in the midsection and doubling him over as far as he could go, coughing painfully.

"You sorry son of a – ," he stopped just short, cursing obviously outlawed in the little wooden house. If Dean hadn't been winded and struggling to breath he might even have laughed. A family who thought nothing of casual torture yet baulked at cussing. Weirder and weirder. Luckily however the assault seemed limited only to the one blow as Isaac instead favoured helping his mother from the room.

"I'll get you to bed now ma," he hushed gently, his tones no more creepy than before despite his effort, "Pig'll wait 'til the morning. He ain't going nowhere, I tied him good and tight."

They disappeared from view together, leaving Dean and Sam alone. Still bending forward, the first Dean saw of his brother's approach was the tips of his shoes, followed by a cautious sounding, "Hey, you okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes. _Gee Sherlock, what do you think?_

"I'll be all right when I've gotten us both the hell out of here Sam," he responded, sitting upright although wincing at the effort. Sam looked back at him dubiously,

"Look, I'm sorry my mother and brother hurt you like that, but you've made some kind of mistake, my name's not Sam. I'm Jacob."

Dean laughed, the lack of humour making his brother frown in confusion.

"No Sammy, you're not. But I swear to God I'm gonna fix this okay? I'm going to get you back."

The decisiveness of the sentence, as well as the passion and fury behind it made Sam pause, that feeling rising within him once more. It was wrong, all wrong and yet…

"Jacob!" came Isaac's harsh shout, "Come up now, ma's asking for you," the end was practically spat in disgust, "Leave the pig."

_Nice._ Reluctantly, and with a hesitant glance, Sam did as he was told and headed out of the kitchen, casting a final glance back into the hard eyes that stared out at him as one last sentence followed him up the stairs. Quiet, defiant, stirring.

"I'm going to fix this Sam. I'm going to put this right."

And he would – he just didn't know how.

* * *

And here's another! As usual I hope it suits, and as usual, big smiles (and blushes of the _aww, you're too kind_ variety) go out to all my lovely reviewers.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven.

The radio up in Belle's bedroom had been playing Christian music when Sam had got up there, crossing the room to sit next to her on the bed, mirroring Isaac who was perched on the other side. Belle had taken up one of their hands each, repeating her tried and tested 'my handsome boys' line. Isaac had smiled adoringly, Sam had tried hard to follow.

But it wasn't right. Something still wasn't right.

Nor had it seemed right until the wind had blow in through the drapes and knocked the radio onto the floor, flipping the station to something that pounded out thrashing guitars, a hammering beat and screaming vocals, a tune that was familiar and comforting, a song that reminded him of…

Instantly Isaac had picked it up and turned it off, responding to his mother clamping her ears with her hands. She had let them drop again in the silence, laughing breathlessly,

"Bless me what a racket! It should be the Lord's word morning, noon and night and nothing else in my book. Horrible, horrible music."

"Metallica," Sam had put in suddenly, not knowing where it had come from but realising it had drawn troubled looks from his mother and brother, who had sent him off to bed soon after claiming he was still delirious from his head-knock. He didn't feel like he was, but then, where else would something so strange have come from?

He'd lain awake tossing and turning for hours, listening to the subtle sounds of the chair scraping against the floor in the kitchen, wondering why his thoughts kept going back to the man within it. What had finally driven him out of bed altogether however, was the sound of a crash from downstairs, followed by a muttered curse, both noises remarkably missed by Isaac and Belle who slept on unaware. He couldn't.

The first thing he saw as his feet touched the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, was the upturned chair lying on its side. Obviously the constant movement had made it give way, planting both seat and prisoner sideways onto the floor. Hence the cursing and the continued struggling. Sam ran his tongue across his lips,

"H – hey…do you know Metallica?"

Instantly the movement ceased, followed by a hiss half surprised, half irritated.

"Sam?"

"Answer the question."

The F.B.I agent paused and Sam could see the bound hands open wide in a _what the hell_ gesture he was surprised he could instantly read,

"Yeah. I know Metallica," came the snapped reply,

Sam took a deep breath,

"So do I."

There was a vague pause, then a softer reply,

"Well, of course you do Sammy. I play enough of it."

"You really think my name is Sam?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

There was the sound of shifting wood accompanied by a grunt and then the voice, biting with sarcasm,

"Think you could sit me up before we start pouring our hearts out?"

Sam blinked, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the bitingly sarcastic tone. He liked it, somehow it felt, comforting.

He crossed the space between them quickly, grabbing hold of both the back of the chair and a handful of Dean's jacket, puling hard on them as he put considerable weight to the task. Both grunted, from a combined mixture of exertion and pain before the chair clattered back onto its four legs again, wrenching Dean forward with added pressure on his twisted arms. He winced, throwing up a grin,

"Don't suppose you want to untie me while you're at it?" In response he simply got a look; _I don't trust you that much_. He nodded, knowing defeat when he saw it, "Fine. Forget I asked."

"So…" Sam continued, in a much more Sammy-like tone, "Why do you think I'm you're brother?"

"I don't," came the succinct reply, drawing a frown,

"Don't what?"

"Think you're my brother."

The frown deepened,

"But you said – ,"

"I don't _think_ you're my brother Sam," Dean sighed in world-weary tones, "I _know_ you are. Hell, we've spent the last year and God knows how many months stuck in the car and in crappy motel rooms together."

His revelation was met with surprise,

"We have? Why?"

"Because…" Dean paused, raising his eyes to the ceiling as he tried to find the right words. Because we fight demons? Yeah, that wouldn't freak him out much. God knows the kid was already screwed up about things as it was, no need to make it worse, "We work together,"

Another frown,

"At the F.B.I?"

"No…" Dean thought hard, "We're more like…salesmen."

"Salesmen? What do we sell?"

"Services…" Dean replied slowly, "…I guess."

"Like satellite TV?"

"…Sort of."

Except nothing like that at all. Feeling the theme of the conversation come to an end, Sam dropped his head and sighed, clearly trying to process everything he was hearing.

"So, what's my name? My full name I mean,"

"Sam Winchester,"

"And yours?"

"Dean,"

"Dean…" Sam's eyes glanced across to the I.D abandoned on the table, "Di'Anno?"

The question drew a grin and Dean shook his head in amusement,

"No, Winchester. Di'Anno is my…stage name," he offered, "Like Paul Di'Anno, original lead singer for Iron Maiden, you know?"

Sam paused, surprise registering across his face,

"Yeah, actually I do."

Great, thought Dean sarcastically, he can't remember me, our job, _anything_ but a random fact about Iron Maiden? Yeah, that he gets. Unbelievable. His mental rant however, was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the sight of Sam sitting down heavily in front of him, F.B.I badge in one hand, thumb absently stroking across the photo of Dean's face.

"What are your…our parents like?" he asked gently, watching a small but genuine smile slip across the other man's features, "Are they…nice?"

"The greatest Sammy," It was a virtual whisper, cut-through with emotion and instantly Sam believed that they were.

"Yeah?" he asked, a smile of his own appearing, "What do they do?"

Dean faltered,

"They err…" the downcast eyes revealed the truth before he even got there. No point in lying about this one, "…they're dead."

It hit Sam like a soccer punch despite the fact that he didn't know them – didn't remember them anyway. The breath rushed out of him in a gasp,

"What? H – how?"

If Dean had thought losing Sam's memories to someone else was hard, then it was only because he hadn't been banking on this part. Dredging up the whole family history with the one person other than himself who should have known it inside out? Reliving the two times in his life his parents had died right in front of him. Still, this Sam – Jacob, didn't need to know the whole truth.

"The house burnt down when you were little," he took a long, deep breath, "Mom didn't get out."

"And…dad?"

"Car crash, couple of months back," just saying the words made Dean clamp his teeth down on his lip, biting his emotions away through pain.

Sam look shell-shocked,

"I – I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"Was I – ," he paused suddenly, aware that the next question seemed almost like prying into a stranger's life but so confused it was as if he had to know, "Was I happy? Being Sam?"

Dean looked up at him, not willing to lie and, honestly feeling more emotionally drained than he had in months.

"Not always."

"But enough?"

Dean met his gaze,

"I hope so. A Hell of a lot happier than you'll ever be here with that pair of freaks,"

Abruptly Sam looked up, loyalty flashing in his eyes. Dean knew the look well, it was usually loyalty for him that triggered it. This time it wasn't.

"Don't talk about them like that!" he replied, tone taking on an edgy of moodiness, "You don't know them,"

"Neither do you Sam!" Dean hissed as sharply as he could against the silence of the rest of the house,

"I – I do!" his younger brother shot back, although the uncertainty of the reply spoke volumes,

"Oh yeah?" Dean countered, sensing the hesitance, "What's your first memory of them?"

He waited with his eyebrows raised expectantly, not surprised when an idea failed to be forthcoming. Sam caught his scepticism, hurrying to explain for both their sakes as his head spun in fear. He couldn't remember anything.

"I – I hit my head and – ,"

The answer didn't wash.

"Come on Sam!" Dean snapped instead, "You can't remember jack about those people because before two days ago you'd never met them! That creepy old broad has never done one damn thing for you in her life – she didn't raise you, she didn't cook your meals, she didn't walk you to school, she didn't read you bedtime stories, none of it!"

Sam felt his brows knit together in frustrated anger, suddenly annoyed by the gaps in his memories, worried that he was doubting what little he knew.

"Yeah?" he interjected hotly, determined to make Dean trip-up so that he could settle the issue once and for all, "Well since your mother is already dead and you think mine's so bad maybe you want to tell me who did all that for _your_ Sam?!"

The answer did anything but prove his point, flashing across the kitchen loud and frustrated,

"I did!"

They both paused, a shocked silence settling across the room. Finally Sam swallowed,

"You did?" he asked with a frown of amazement, "You did all that for…me?"

Dean shrugged awkwardly, avoiding eye contact in the sudden show of emotional touchy-feely-ness which for him was uncomfortable at the best of times,

"Well, yeah Sam, you're my little brother. What was I supposed to do?"

It wasn't a question that needed answering, which was probably just as well, because at that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the landing above that sent Sam straight to his feet, eyes wide in panic. For both their sakes, he simply could not be found down there. Dean knew it too, nodding his head towards a gap behind the door,

"Don't worry about them. Go."

Sam paused, hesitantly, gaze swinging back to the battered but stoic man before him.

"What are you going to do?"

The answer was simple,

"Give you time to get your ass back upstairs where they think it is."

The stairs were creaking now, under the heavy tread of someone, which given Belle's light frame was probably Isaac. Sam paused again,

"But what about – ,"

"I'll be fine Sam. It's not like I'm going anywhere anyway." Despite his best efforts that was. Still his brother seemed uncertain,

"You're sure?"

The footsteps were closer now, louder.

"Yes. Go!" Dean snapped, suddenly hissing one last instruction to his confused sibling, "Sam!"

"What?"

"If you're still not convinced check the basement. You're not the first Jacob this family has had in the last year, hell, you're not even the original," his expression grew frightening serious, "They're going to kill you Sam."

He didn't have time to reply, even though he was dying to, because at that moment the footsteps hit the floor of the hallway and Sam was forced to squash himself out of sight in the gap behind the open doorway, watching as a lean figure wandered past him into the kitchen and came to a standstill before Dean chuckling mirthlessly.

"Talking to yourself, pig?" Isaac smirked in the half-gloom, drawing one of Dean's rebellious smiles,

"No, just saying my prayers like a good boy,"

"You're going to need to," Isaac replied, his focussed attention allowing Sam the opportunity to escape unseen, albeit with a prompting glare from Dean. Isaac continued unawares, bending in so uncomfortably close to his captive that Sam half-paused on the threshold of the room in alarm before being sent on again with a firm look, "God doesn't like filthy pig sinners,"

Dean kept his face poker-straight, watching Sam disappear out of the corner of his eye.

"From what I remember he's not keen on murderers either."

The sound of Isaac's fist connecting first with face and then chest echoed out into the hall where Sam stood halfway up the steps, heart pounding with a strange amount of concern. He couldn't remember anything about this 'Dean Winchester' or the life he claimed the pair led, but something in him left him deeply concerned about his welfare. He didn't want him hurt – but then, what could he do against his mother and brother? He may not have been able to remember much about them, but he knew they were to be obeyed at all times. Going against them just wasn't an option. Was it?

From the kitchen he heard Isaac speak up again, voice now a taunting whisper,

"You're going to get yours in the morning pig," he hissed, a sigh of relief escaping Sam's lips as a sarcastic – if not a little winded – voice answered him back evenly,

"Can't wait."

Isaac snorted then, turning on his heel and heading out of the kitchen back into the front room. Sam heard him coming, taking the remaining steps two at a time as he headed upstairs before him, just managing to slip into bed as the curly-haired outline walked past in the dark, pausing to swing open his door and peer in to satisfy himself that Sam really was asleep. The acting obviously convinced him but instead of shutting the door again, he left it wide open and padded across to his also open doorway leaving Sam to curse quietly. There was no way he could chance going downstairs again tonight with Isaac both awake, cautious and in such close proximity.

Both Dean and the basement would have to wait until the morning. If he went at all of course, which was something he was still debating with himself. Why believe the man anyway? Surely that was a better question to ask himself than _what's in the basement?_

Sighing, he set his jaw and placed his head on the pillow, trying to quell the swirling doubt and confusion in his mind and replace them with sleep, telling himself the same things over and over.

_It could wait until the morning._

_It was probably all a lot of nonsense anyway._

_Maybe it was true…_

Sleep was a long time coming.

Another day, another chapter and we're slowly starting to build towards the big showdown! Thanks again for all my lovely smile-inducing reviews, they were lovely to come home to after a bizarre and freezing cold day at work! Please keep them coming!


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight.

When Sam next opened his eyes, the dull light of early morning was starting to seep in through the drapes and instantly he was wide awake, disbelieving at having gone to sleep in the first place and wondering exactly when he had.

His door was still wide open and as the floorboard outside it creaked underfoot, he squeezed his eyes shut again in pretence, heart pounding hard like it had the first morning he'd woken there. Suddenly he didn't want to see, speak to or even hear the people who were supposed to be his 'family.' Unluckily for him however, not hearing them was not an option.

"He sleepin'?" came Isaac's harsh if hushed whisper. Belle obviously nodded back an affirmative.

"Like a baby."

There was a pause in which Sam could hear them both breathing heavily, then finally Isaac spoke up again, this time sounding a little hesitant.

"I think – I think maybe Jacob suspects something," in the silence that met his sentence he hurried to explain himself further, "What with that music last night and the pig downstairs he – ,"

"We'll deal with the pig in a minute," It was said quickly and firmly, a hint of pleasure creeping into the tone as Belle smiled, "That way he won't be around to mess with Jacob's head anymore," she tutted sadly, "My poor boy. So confused."

"What if the rest of the law come looking for him?"

Belle's voice hardened again.

"They won't find any trace of him here."

"But Jacob – ,"

"Jacob will do as we tell him. He's ours. He will do what's best for the family."

The sentence made Sam's heart lurch from under the covers. Do his best for the family? That was all very well, but which family? Everything he knew – which didn't seem like much at that point – told him to trust the woman and her son, but did he really come from a family that thought so little of killing intruding lawmen? Did he really see himself having come from such people? And what about the lawman, or was it salesman? Either way, what about this Dean character? He was a complete stranger and yet something about him seemed so sincere that Sam instantly wanted to trust him over his own family…or, those he believed were his own family. It was all so messed up.

He stopped thinking when his head began to spin, just in time to hear Belle's final sentence.

"Come on. We'll take him out back and shoot him."

"Like a dog!" Isaac chuckled sadistically. Belle's voice was tight.

"Like a pig."

Apparently that was her favourite phrase.

The pair left, their departure signalled as much by Isaac's wild giggling as by the creak of the rickety old floorboards. As soon as their feet hit the bottom step, Sam was up and out of bed, still fully dressed from the night before and full of a strange purpose – he needed to check out the basement. _If_, and only _if_ he found something, he needed to do it before they shot Dean…the F.B.I Agent…salesman…whatever he was.

Belle and Isaac had beaten him to the kitchen already and as he crept down into the landing, avoiding the creaky floorboard on the last step, he heard them greet their prisoner with the sickly sweet tones that now seemed to send a shiver down Sam's back.

"Well, well," the older woman sang softly, her tone sounding strangely amused, "What's this? Trying to escape, filth?"

Dean's tone now sounded heavier, tired, pained even, although mercifully no less acerbic,

"Thought I'd skip breakfast this morning. Save you the trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble," she sang back at him darkly, nobody in the room noticing as Sam inched his head around the door-frame just in time to see Belle lean over and snatch something out of Dean's hands and hold it up to the light. The sight of it made her chuckle, less wildly than Isaac but just as disturbing, "So, you found yourself something half-way sharp did you pig," she grinned, bending over the back of the chair to yank up Dean's hands forcefully. Sam winced at the pain that flashed across the face as Dean's shoulders were wrenched the wrong way, the lips stifling a curse.

"Son of a – ,"

Belle cooed sympathetically as she examined the ropes, letting the hands fall back quickly and leaning in close to talk to him,

"Starting to cut through nicely there. Must have taken you hours,"

Dean shrugged,

"Well you're a little starved for entertainment round here so I decided to make my own."

From out of nowhere, Isaac suddenly hit him hard about the head. Again. The smile spreading as yet more muttered curses spilt from between Dean's clenched teeth.

"I wouldn't worry about that now," Belle consoled, running her hand between his shoulder blades, "You're about to have bigger concerns."

She crossed the kitchen in several short steps, turning so suddenly that Sam had to dive back against the wall to avoid being seen. Somewhere within the room a drawer scraped open and Belle drew out something heavy, turning to point it in Dean's direction with a click.

Sam didn't need to look to know what it was.

"Isaac," Belle commanded, suddenly harsh, "Get him off that chair and keep him tied. He so much as sneezes between here and the barn I'm putting holes in him."

There was the sound of scrabbling and then a grunt from Dean. Sam stood backed up against the wall out of sight, listening as the back door squeaked open and boots clattered out onto the porch. He took his chance. Keeping low he dived into the kitchen, ducking under the windows as the family procession crossed the yard away from the house, allowing him to swing open the door to the basement and pound hurriedly down the steps. It wasn't until he realised what it was that he was rushing to see that he slowed down, suddenly apprehensive and wishing he'd brought a torch to see through the dimly-lit gloom.

His feet hit the earth of the floor sooner than he'd anticipated, and he stumbled against the change in terrain, staggering forward in the half-light and nearly falling altogether as the ground rose up suddenly before him, the toe of his shoe disappearing into a mound of dirt as he put his hands down to brace himself.

His heart began to beat rapidly as he pushed himself upright once more, brushing the soil from his hands and frowning into the gloom.

What was a mound of earth doing in the middle of the basement?

He swallowed with difficulty, forcing down what he hoped was only a lump in his throat and not something more reactionary altogether.

From the vague light that cast down from the open door to the kitchen, Sam could begin to make out other shapes besides the one before him, his slowly adjusting eyes picking up a pattern of rising and falling ground, each roughly the same length and width. Four in all.

He took a disbelieving step back, suddenly unwilling to be so close to such a scene of horror, starting as something thudded to the ground behind him, knocked loose. He spun at once to pick it up, a shovel, covered in dirt and…he held it closer to the light, his stomach flipping over completely and forcing the bile further up his throat as he battled to control his emotions.

It was blood. Dull, rust-coloured and not exactly new, but blood none the less.

He dropped it instantly, wiping his hands frantically against his shirt as if somehow sheer contact with the gruesome scene had made him unclean, had infected him with something.

Which meant…which meant that somehow, in some warped and unthinkable way, Dean Winchester had been right. Right about his family and right about the mother and brother who were at that moment heading off to shoot him.

Abruptly Sam turned and ran for the steps, vaulting them two at a time. He had no idea what he was going to do once he got to the barn, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Something inside him propelled him on, a sense of retribution and action he didn't know he was capable of before realising that, just because Jacob hadn't been capable of such bravado, didn't mean Sam Winchester wasn't.

It was a thought that spurred him on.

Until, that was, the thunderous sound of a shot echoed across the yard, making him grind to a halt in the dirt, wide eyes on the closed doors of the barn before him.

He was too late.

"No!"

* * *

Talk about cliffhangers huh? Cruel but had to be done!

Thanks to all those still sticking around with it, and putting up with my 'newness' to this particular fictional realm (with hopefully more offerings to come). Still, I enjoyed writing this…it's been too long since I did any!

The end is nearly in sight but I hope you'll still review and made me smile! Until tomorrow…


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine.

Dean had been dragged to the barn pretty unceremoniously, his stiff legs complaining bitterly at the sudden exertion, his every muscle aching. He'd considered turning and swinging his shoulder high into Isaac's throat, maybe adding a backward kick or a knee to the guts for good measure – Belle's gun however, hovering ever-ready in the background had made that option less than appealing. Inflicting pain on the ginger-haired weirdo who had him by the scruff of the neck was all well and good, but if he ended up with a hole blown in the back of his skull then it wasn't really the victory he was after.

He'd stumbled once on their trek across the dusty ground, when his foot had caught on something at the house's perimeter, half-buried under a flap of dead grass. He'd lurched forward, Isaac tightening his grip to keep his prisoner upright and half strangling him in the process. It had however given Dean the chance to glance down at the offending item underfoot. A lump of metal, attached to cables that ran away from it under the dirt. He followed the trail with his eyes as he was jerked forward again, noticing that the wiring seemed to run around the house and barn, although God only knew what it was for. Judging by the rest of the junk scattered around the yard, probably nothing.

Although there was that humming again.

Briefly, Isaac had released him long enough to open the barn doors, Belle staying squared behind him with the gun, although unfortunately she knew her stuff enough to keep out of range if Dean decided to spin round and kick it from her grasp. Damn they were good, which was more than a shock considering the state of them.

"Get inside."

He had done, reluctantly, assisted by an unnecessary push from Isaac, who was obviously getting his jollies in before they wasted him.

The first thing Dean saw as he stumbled across the threshold was a sight that made him virtually well up in relief. The Impala, sitting proudly in the centre of the chaos like a bright, shiny beacon. Mentally he checked her for any imperfections, relieved to find none. Dopey and sadistic he might be, but Isaac at least seemed to be able to drive properly. If nothing else, Dean was thankful for that.

"On your knees pig," Belle had suddenly barked from beside him and Isaac had added to the threat with another shove, one that sent him clean into the side of the Impala so that he banged hard against the window.

It was as he did that he noticed the red glow coming from inside, a light radiating out from underneath the passenger seat and one that made him frown in surprise.

What the hell –

It clicked almost immediately, the EMF detector. But what – there were no spirits around were there? Or maybe there were, maybe the ghosts of those Belle and Isaac had killed were with them, although if it was strong enough for the EMF meter to read then he at least expected them to be active somehow, moving things, making themselves known. Was it too much to expect a spirit to save his ass? After all, he had come to unveil the gruesome twosome's deadly past time, which, in his book, deserved more than a little gratitude.

Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket again, Isaac flung Dean onto the floor, watching him land in the dirt with a bang that made him wince in pain.

Obviously, gratitude meant very little to Jacob and co.

"Now then pig," Belle grinned through yellowing teeth, her sentence indicative of a woman who'd seen far too many movies, "Any last words?"

Dean looked up, defiance playing through his eyes as she brought up the gun to point at his chest. He had plenty to say, most importantly, _sorry I didn't save you Sammy_, not that he could say that out loud. Eventually, he settled on something he thought fitted, the barest hint of a smile flickering across his face.

"See you in hell, bitch."

And then the gun had gone off, deafening them all.

For a good ten seconds, Dean was convinced he was hit, knelt on the floor, eyes shut, head hung over and wondering, above all else, where the searing pain was. There was none.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes.

Belle and Isaac were standing several paces in front of him, their backs turned in his direction. The gun still sat in Belle's hands, though it was neither pointed his way nor smoking. What was smoking however, was the shotgun sat in the hands of Jed Hamilton.

He blinked, then checked again. Yep. Jed Hamilton of all people, stood at the back of the barn, gun pointed in the direction of a fresh hole decorating the roof-line, face poised for more action. His eyes found out Dean's and a toothy smile opened wide across his face.

"You all right there son?" he asked, grinning. Dean struggled to form a sentence, disbelieving at not only the man's appearance, but also at his distinct lack of urgency.

"Get the gun!" he snapped, nodding at Belle.

"Oh, right!"

Idiot. He was working with an idiot. Although at his snapped command the old-timer quickly shuffled forward to snatch away the weapon that until that point had rendered Belle so dangerous.

"Dean!"

With a bang that startled them all, the barn doors suddenly flew open, making everyone stop in their tracks and turn towards the commotion. Sam stood silhouetted by the early morning sunshine, panic on his face, panting heavily. His eyes fell first on Dean and he exhaled long and hard at the bemused face that stared back at him.

"Sam?"

"Don't," his tone was desperate, "Don't shoot him!"

At once Belle's face turned ashen, her lip beginning to tremble in emotion. In that second she realised she'd lost him, lost another son, lost the chance of reuniting her family. Again. It was too much to bear.

"No, no, no…"

"Who the hell's this kid?" as Jed interjected in confused tones, dropping his guard to push up the brim of his worn cap with a thumb, Isaac made his move, slamming sideways into his neighbour and sending them both to the ground, rifle and gun skittering away across the floor. Dean bit back a curse. Idiot!

"No!" As Belle's final shred of sanity crumbled she launched forward towards Sam, knocking him from his feet with a powerful blow. Obviously 'Jacob' had never been hit by his mother before – that he could remember – and his face showed both the pain and the betrayal clearly, "I'm not losing you," she muttered dangerously, pointing a shaking finger in his direction, "I'm not losing you to them!"

As Sam leant forward, hand clamped to the sting in his cheek, something fell out of the folds of his shirt, the metal glinting in the sunlight, a name clearly inscribed across the horizontal arm of the cross. Dean's sudden understanding was instantaneous. The continuous humming, the EMF meter going nuts, the wires in the yard, Sam's loss of memory. If World War Three had not been in the process of breaking out around him he might even have been impressed, he knew Sam would be when he explained everything to him – later.

Rolling backwards towards the car, Dean yanked the ropes securing his hands up against the wheel arch, rubbing them frantically against the corner of the metal and praying he wasn't taking off any paintwork.

"Come on!"

They gave way abruptly with a cracking of fibres and he pulled the rest free before staggering to his feet and surging the distance between himself and his brother, cutting in front of Belle, oblivious to her ascending anger.

He slapped a firm hand down on Sam's shoulder, watching the hurt and confused face turn towards him,

"Time to wake up Sam," he said breathlessly, wrapping his fingers around the chain and pulling hard.

It came away with a snap and unexpectedly the barn was filled with Belle's scream of distress.

"Jacob!"

* * *

Hope this makes sense, I did just re-read it but I had such a long and mental day at work I fell asleep when I came home and feel all dopey now! So please forgive any errors!

As always, I love my reviewers – who can all enjoy an imaginary mince pie on me! (Don't worry, I'll put one aside for S.C too!)

Until Chapter Ten…


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten.

There were no fireworks as the pendent came off in Dean's hand, no visible change in their surroundings, but something was different and the five people gathered instantly knew it, the barn falling strangely quiet, almost as if someone had hit the pause button.

Isaac froze instantly alerted by his mother's distress and Jed turned a bemused – and probably mildly concussed – head in the direction of the new centre of activity, which comprised Belle staggering weakly towards where Dean was crouched over Sam who was sat in the hay looking irritated.

"Ow!" he whined rubbing absently at his neck and glaring at his older brother "What the hell dude?!"

Dean blinked, beaten to his question by Belle whose face was a mask of horror as she stared dumbstruck at the events unfolding around her.

"Jacob?"

Sam, still glaring angrily at Dean glanced up at the sound of a different voice, his eyes widening as he took in the unfamiliar scene around him, the barn setting, the two men beyond him, the wild-haired woman gaping at him tears pooling her eyes obviously distraught about…something. On top of which, she seemed to think he was called Jacob.

"Err…" he faltered under her scrutiny, aware that everyone seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Eyes still focussed on the woman before him, he turned his head in Dean's direction, letting his eyes follow after an uncertain pause, "Dean? What's going on?" Abruptly he noticed something else, a frown of concern furrowing his brow, "What happened to your face?"

Instead of an answer, Dean let out a long sigh of relief, clapping his brother hard across the shoulders and grabbing up a handful of shirt in his hands as if afraid to let go. It did nothing to ease Sam – the real Sam's – confusion, nor did the screech of anguish from in front of them.

"No!"

It was shrill enough to rattle the rafters and in that instant the tableau suddenly broke into action once more, Isaac collecting up a piece of wood and knocking Jed Hamilton senseless with it and Belle reaching for the shotgun lying discarded in the straw at her feet.

Dean saw her lunge for it before Sam did, almost knocking his brother over as he dove forward to block her, grabbing it at the same moment her fingers clasped around it and pulling hard. She didn't give up easily though, and just as Dean was beginning to twist it from her grasp, Isaac waded in from behind, jabbing him across the side of the head with his impromptu club until he could no longer grapple with Belle.

"Dean!"

Sam's characteristic concern returned once more, he struggled to his feet as the blows rained down on his brother, not having the first clue as to what was going on, how they'd got there or who they were fighting but knowing he needed to put a stop to it.

Belle however managed to anticipate his movements and quickly she regained control of the shotgun she'd been grappling with Dean for. She angled it up just in time to stop Sam's fist from digging at Isaac in retribution, pulling back the hammer slowly, breath tearing from her throat.

"No Jacob," she hissed, her voice almost hoarse with emotion, "Don't you touch him."

Then she was marching towards him, turning the butt of the weapon up to catch him on the head, jostling him across the floor as he bent forwards in pain, trying to control the stars suddenly bursting in his vision.

"Isaac!" the command was barked and almost at once Sam felt more hands forcing him forwards, pushing, prodding, wrestling him back into a corner where the light dimmed and a door locked behind them firmly.

"Dean!" he called again, worried for both himself and his suddenly absent brother. There was no way Dean would let strangers force Sam anywhere at gunpoint unless he was too hurt to stop them. The thought reignited Sam's anger and he looked up through fuzzy vision, jaw clenching at the tall man standing before him wiping a bloody nose off on the back of his hand, "What did you do to him?"

"Your brother's fine child," Belle sang softly, gun still aimed at his chest, eyes floating around the room unable to focus, "He's right here, see."

She indicated Isaac, drawing a frown from Sam. They were insane. These people were insane. They'd already beaten Dean to within an inch of his life and now they had him locked in some sort of workshop at gunpoint – which was all the more frightening in that Sam's last memory was heading out across the car park towards the diner. What in the hell had happened since then? Why couldn't he remember it?

"Sam!" a voice called through the timber, hammering against the door. Dean. Sounding pissed, really pissed. That was always a good sign. Although obviously not for Belle.

"You were such a god boy," she murmured, drawing his attention once more, lifting the gun higher. Isaac moved on instinct, seemingly reading his mother's intentions. He came up quietly behind Sam, wrenching back his arms and digging a heel hard into the backs of his knees. Sam sank onto the floor with a thud, grimacing as Isaac pulled back his head using a handful of hair. Belle's aim followed them, expression still awash with emotion, "But you disobeyed me Jacob. I won't have my boys disobey me. I told you again and again that you needed to listen to your ma, that you couldn't leave us. Ever. But you wouldn't accept that. I had to punish you Jacob, I had to. But I got you back, and now I'm going to have to tell you again."

"Punish him like last time ma," Isaac whispered from above, a giggle of delight catching in his throat. Sam swallowed, nervously. _What the hell?_

"Bad children need to be punished,"

She lifted the gun a final time and Sam shut his eyes tight. Surely he wasn't going to die at the hands of some lunatic in a barn with Dean just outside and without a clue as to what was happening? He couldn't. She took her final aim. He just couldn't…

He didn't.

As Belle's finger brushed against the trigger, the door burst abruptly off its hinges shattering inwards in a tornado of wooden fragments. Dean was stood in its midst, a gun raised at his side. He took his aim in a fraction of the time it had taken Belle, pausing just momentarily before firing, determination and vengeance flashing through his eyes. The round clipped Belle's arm in an explosion of sound, flesh and blood, spinning her roughly on her heel and depositing her to the floor.

"Ma!"

Isaac stood shell-shocked, the colour draining from him although his grip on Sam's arms and hair didn't weaken, in fact the opposite as Isaac's face tightened in fury and he yanked Sam's head back further. Dean stayed eerily calm.

"Let him go," came the command, solid and unwavering. Isaac didn't seem to take the hint.

"Filthy pig scum," he spat, tears now falling freely down his face, bottom lip quivering like a little boy. Dean didn't move, and then suddenly Isaac was shoving Sam out of the way, diving for Belle's gun and turning it roundly on the man he still firmly believed was F.B.I.

Sam felt his stomach lurch in horror,

"Dean!"

But when the round went off, it was Isaac that dropped to the floor, blood pumping through his fingers as he clutched at his stomach. His was fatal and they all knew it. The rifle slid from his grasp as both hands met at his middle, trying desperately to staunch the flow. His knees were the next thing to go, dropping him onto the ground where he began a slow and painful crawl towards his mother.

"Ma…" he whispered, sobbing against the pain, "Ma."

Dean watched, expressionless as Isaac's fingers curled around hers, collapsing beside her, his darkening eyes taking in hers, still awake and alert, but not quite in the same realm of reality that the rest of them were. She tugged her grasp away absently, turning towards Sam with tears in her eyes. She only had one son on her mind.

"Jacob?"

Isaac's sobbing came out harder, turning into gasps for breath as he started to slip to into the gloom of his impending death. Belle neither noticed nor cared.

"Jacob. "

It was a plea and not one that filled Sam with any comfort. Quickly, he scooted backwards across the floor, hauled to his feet by Dean who then positioned himself in front of his younger brother to block the haunted gaze of the older woman. Eventually she dropped her head into bloody hands and started to cry as beside her Isaac took his last breath.

They watched for close to a minute, neither able to look away until finally Dean broke his gaze from the unsettling scene.

"You ok?" he asked gruffly, his words betraying his concern. Sam nodded, slowly,

"Yeah," he replied, not sounding utterly convinced and more worried about the wealth of bruises that dotted Dean's face than anything, "You?"

"Yeah," and he was. Now. He blew out a long breath, throwing the gun down onto the floor distastefully. It had been Belle's after all, "Been a long couple of days though."

Behind them, Jed Hamilton let out a groan from where he was half-buried in the straw, unconsciousness releasing him back out into the world again and no doubt screaming painfully as it did. Dean turned towards the old timer with a half-smile, watching as his groggy rescuer clamped a hand to his spinning head.

If ever the expression _all's well that ends well_ could be personified – then that moment was it.

"Dean?"

He turned towards his younger brother instantly as Sam's confused tones filtered through Jed's incoherent grumbling.

"Yeah?"

He knew Sam had a lot of questions, which was only understandable after what he'd just witnessed, but provided he asked them one at a time and used that famous brain of his, Dean was fairly sure he'd be able to fill in the gaps for him. Sam was nothing if not the logical one.

"What just happened?"

Right.

He sighed heavily, moving a hand to scratch at the back of his head.

This was going to take a lot longer than he'd anticipated.

* * *

So, that was the big showdown. Hope it did all it said on the tin (maybe a little bit more – I dunno!)

One more (and obviously the explanation!) to go now…

And much love to my faithful reviewers who can hang up their reviewing fingers soon. We're nearly at the end now!


	12. Chapter Eleven

So here it is, the big explanation – which came from a very interesting conversation I had with a spiritualist I went to see for past-life regression. We discussed the possibilities of this (and many other things) and I thought it lent itself to a story. Whether it would actually work in the real world or not I have no idea, but, for the sake of my ego, let's just say it does!

On with the story!

* * *

Chapter Eleven.

"Psychometry?" Sam asked, staring at his brother with a face wrinkled in disbelief. Dean nodded, eyes gazing straight ahead across the far-reaching fields of corn,

"Yep."

Sam however wasn't entirely satisfied with the explanation,

"An electro-magnetic field?"

Dean rolled his eyes, heaving a sigh and turning briefly to shoot his brother a wide-eyed glare,

"Dude," he hissed in exasperation, unwilling to admit just how much he'd missed the bickering, "Are you going to repeat everything I just said?"

Sam paused, blowing out a breath and turning to watch as beyond them the little house, yard and barn surged with police officers, Jed in the middle directing them enthusiastically and simultaneously making his statement. The one where he'd found the scene after hearing gunshots and then found the graves in the cellar. Fight between mother and son he was calling it and Belle was in no state of mind to disagree. Thank heavens for small mercies.

Sam shook his head quickly, at the same time letting out a short incredulous laugh that took some of the sentiment out of his apology,

"I'm sorry Dean I just – ," he paused again, trying to take it all in and shifting his position against the Impala as they both leant against it to watch the proceedings across the road, "I just can't image them knowing anything residual memories, or how you managed to work it all out."

Which wasn't a dig at his intelligence as much as it was a genuine admission – even a compliment – regarding Dean's sleuthing abilities. The older Winchester shrugged it off, casual as ever about his biggest achievements. Skirt-chasing? Yeah, _that_ Dean could and possibly someday _would_ write a book about, but saving people's lives? _No big deal Sam, all part of the job _etc, etc.

"Well," Dean began in much the same tones, "It didn't all come together until I saw the EMF meter going crazy in the car, after that – ," another shrug. _No big deal_.

Sam had sat quietly through most of the explanation, first listening to how all the metallic objects in the house had been tingling constantly, then how Dean had found what he later realised was an electro-magnetic field encircling the property, and finally Jacob Whittaker I's cross hanging around Sam's neck. From there psychometry – the belief that objects, especially metallic ones, harnessed the memory of their former owners – was a simple conclusion. Although even Dean had to admit, much like Sam, he was surprised that enhancing the magnetic field to increase the spiritual properties of the pendent had even occurred to such strange little people as Belle and Isaac. Still, that's what life did. Surprised you.

"So they killed the others because…" try as he might Sam was still wrapping his head around it.

"The pendent only really blocked out people's own memories – probably helped by whatever they hell they injected you with – to replace them altogether with Jacob's would probably have taken an electro-magnet the size of the White House. I guess after a while it just started to wear off."

He shrugged again, _of course, I'm no scientist_.

Sam smiled. He didn't have to be.

"Besides," Dean continued, "Since they killed the original Jacob in the first place, unlocking all his memories wouldn't exactly have been their best move. They only needed basic instincts like trust and loyalty."

Sam nodded, suddenly guilty he'd given those so freely to some other family. Even if he couldn't help it at the time. Luckily he remembered next to nothing, or else he imagined the guilt would have been worse. He'd had a good look at the bruises on Dean's face and the thought he'd been standing doing nothing when they'd occurred was not exactly something he wanted to relive.

Eventually however, a smile slid across his face,

"So," he began, grinning, "I remembered Metallica, huh?"

Dean snorted,

"And Iron Maiden."

"Yeah?"

"Well, you remembered Paul Di'Anno at least,"

Sam frowned,

"Who?"

"Paul Di'Anno," Dean repeated, "Original singer? You've heard of him Sam."

His brother's expression remained clueless,

"Never."

"What?! Come on dude! You're telling me you remember him mid-mind-melt and now, nothing?"

Sam's turn to shrug,

"I don't know what to tell you,"

Dean sighed heavily, shaking his head and turning to pull open the door to the Impala. He was not sticking around in Backwatersville any longer than they had to – which now that he had his brother back, was not at all. Sam followed his lead, still looking clueless and obviously searching his mental recesses for any conversation they might ever have had pertaining to Iron Maiden's lead singers.

It took him a second to realise that Dean wasn't moving. Usually getting into the car meant action and they'd be halfway down the road music blaring, but for some reason he hadn't even put the keys in the ignition. Sam frowned,

"Dean?"

"Here," his voice when he spoke was low, gruff even, one syllable speaking volumes in terms of emotion. Sam's frown deepened as Dean handed something across to him, small, folded up and a little battered around the edges. Sam opened it up cautiously, blinking in surprise at what he saw,

"Wha – when?" he stopped short, taking in the photograph of he and Dean from a couple of years before he had gone off to college, sitting in the back garden of, well, that part was anyone's guess really. He sure as hell couldn't remember, he doubted Dean could either. Sure, houses with gardens hadn't been too frequent in their childhood, but the ones they had rented still kind of blurred into one. He took a deep shaky breath, which Dean saw as his moment to come in,

"Dad had it," he said quietly, "I was…" another awkward shrug, nowadays used more as a punctuation mark than anything, "…I was waiting for the right time."

_And after seeing you nearly die at the hands of a family of maniacs I decided now was it. _

He didn't need to add that part. Sam already knew it.

"Dad had this?"

"Yep."

"Huh," It was a simple sound, part disbelieving, part-touched. He didn't even care Dean had kept it from him, what was the point? John was a sore enough subject at the best of times and, well, having been ripped from what was left of his real family by a pair of interlopers, Sam wasn't going to start a fight now. Although he made sure to file it away for later, if he bided his time he might even be able to influence where they stopped for dinner that night, using secret-photograph-related blackmail as his weapon. Not that Dean didn't usually give in to him on that and countless other fronts eventually anyway.

Sam looked up, smiling, taking in Dean's hesitance and reassuring him that there was going to be no bickering about it.

"Missouri was right," he offered instead, pausing for effect as Dean finally turned on the engine, "You were a funny looking kid."

Dean gave him the briefest of sideways glances, pulling onto the road with a snort,

"Hey, not so much of the kid. I was practically a man, besides look who's talking. You're what, fifteen in that photo? Already you're King Kong tall. Freak."

Sam sat back, letting the countryside flash by the windows, strangely comforted as Dean switched on Zeppelin in the background. Normality. Or, at least it was for them. It felt good to be back. Back on the road, back with Dean, back to the good old –

"How can you _not_ remember Paul Di'Anno?"

Yeah, that too.

Highs, lows and everything else in between, he and Dean would always be one thing that topped anyone's claims otherwise, and that was stronger than all the supernatural crap in the world.

They were blood.

They were brothers.

They were the Winchesters.

* * *

Before I go I want to thank everybody who has reviewed and followed this little story of mine. I hope you all drop by and leave a final word or two!

I am already seven chapters into my new fic – which I've tried to make as episode-like as I can – but since I don't post until I'm at least ten chapters in (to avoid that thing where one chapter comes up and is never followed by anything else!) it'll be a week or two before I'm ready to upload like I did this one. Still, I might just post the first chapter to see if it gathers any interest or not, so I hope you'll look out for it and be as kind to it as you all were to this one!

And don't worry, if that one sucks, I've got plenty more ideas rattling around up here waiting to see the light of day…


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